


The wild Blue Rose

by Space_Samurai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Coming of Age, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Jon becomes a wildling, Kidnapping, Male Ygritte, North of the Wall, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Wildlings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-03-26 15:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19008778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_Samurai/pseuds/Space_Samurai
Summary: The song of Lyarra Snow is a sad one. Beautiful but baseborn, scorned by those above her station and yet desired by them. Much like her aunt before her, she was stolen in the night, never to be seen again. Or so they sing in the South.-In the true North, stolen from her home, Lyarra must learn to live amongst the freefolk until she finds a way to escape.





	1. The Bastard of Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first asoiaf Fic, born of a binging of Fem!Jon fics. My own take on the trope. You will see a combination of the canon events with some show elements. Also, while I think Game of Thrones is a warning itself, I'll add an extra note at the beginning of each chapter if anything comes up.
> 
> Now enjoy :)

The days until the King and his people arrived seemed endless. Winterfell was on a fevered frenzy of chores and tasks that would only be soothed by the arrival of the court. Everyone was always busy, running from one place to another while Lady Catelyn commanded them like an army.

Lyarra was spared by the mercy of her father, for she was certain that the Tully-woman would have put her to work as well if the man had not interfered. She’d send her to scrub the floors somewhere off her sight. Lyarra already tended to be out of it anyway, the mother of her siblings did not share the fondness that most of them felt towards her.

Lyarra feels a light thrill, at her five-and-ten years of age, she has left Winterfell only a handful of times; never wondering beyond Wintertown with her brother. Having the royal family coming here is the closest thing she’ll ever experience the South. Not that she’s ever been eager to leave her family home, Lyarra is grateful, not many bastards have their presence tolerated for such a long time as hers.

Though if it were up to Lady Catelyn, Lyarra is certain that she’d be long gone. Ever since her flowering the year before, she’s lived haunted by the fear of waking up to the news of her betrothal to an elderly lord, or worse, to learn that she is to become a Septa or a Silent Sister.

It is only because of her father that she remains in Winterfell, unwedded and free, where she gets to ride and train along her older brother. It won’t be like this forever, she knows, so Lyarra appreciates every hunt and lesson they share together. She also explores the Godswoods with Arya and Bran, who is way too fond of climbing for his own good. Though she gets to enjoy these things, it doesn’t means she gets to skip lessons with Septa Mordane.

The woman does not like Lyarra, and has been the protagonist of many nightmares she had as a child. She had come to Winterfell before Sansa had turned two, already a lady in the making, with the intention of raising the child into a proper highborn woman. Imagine her contempt, when she was told she was to instruct Lord Eddard’s bastard daughter too.

Lyarra did not believe in the Seven, as she found solace in her Old Gods, but Septa Mordane had made her fear the slightest bit the Seven Hells. She had been thoroughly clear on the nature of bastards, and Lyarra had feared her doom for a long time before Robb had pulled her out of it.

  _Bastard girls are known to steal their sisters husbands_ , the dreadful woman would tell Sansa, eradicating the little relationship they had. It had been easier to bond with Arya, who was wild as the North itself. Lyarra didn’t dread the womanly arts, but she didn’t enjoy them the way her red-haired sister did. Things got worse when, at the last feast in Winterfell, one of the younger Karstark boys had made comments praising Lyarra’s beauty; unknowingly neglecting Sansa’s own.

The girl had taken it to heart, and wasn’t interested on making amends with Lyarra or hearing her words.

Lady Catelyn, practical woman she was, had seen that there would not be a repetition.

“It’s already wrong for you to parade your bastard in front of your liegemen. It would be a greater offence to do so in front of the King and his family.” And thus Lyarra had been banned from the feast.

Privately, Lyarra thought that, if the King truly had as many bastards as the rumors claimed, her presence wouldn’t be _that_ much of a great offense.

“What’s going on in your little bastard head Snow?” Theon Greyjoy appeared by her side, with lazy smile on his lips and tousled hair. Lyarra chose to believe it was because he had just taken a nap.

“Nothing of your interest, Squid.”

Her relationship with Theon was a complicated one. Much like her brother Robb, Theon had defended her from the mean names other children called her, only to use those names himself later on. He’d help her with archery and then insinuate she wanted to bed all the guards in Winterfell.

Lyarra was certain that an easy friendship could have arose between them if the older boy wasn't so fond of opening his mouth. Still, they shared a sense of comradeship, Theon could understand Lyarra in ways Robb never would. They were both looked down upon and distrusted by others: Lyarra was a bastard and Theon a traitor's son, a ward to ensure his father's good behavior.

"I bet you are thinking of all the pretty knights that are coming with the royal party." He taunted. "Are you hoping one of them will take you back to King's Landing?"

"No, I'm not. Are _you_?"

For a second, his smile faltered. Good, Lyarra lived for the simple things.

“No. I-”

“Theon! Lyarra!”

Both of them turned to the voice of the future Lord of Winterfell. Robb Stark was wearing his riding clothes, and in one hand he held a sword-which had to be Theon’s, Lyarra guessed- and in the other her leather gloves.

“There’s to be an execution.” He panted, apparently he had run all the way towards them.

“What happened?” Asked Lyarra, dreading the answer.

“A traitor of the Night’s Watch, a _deserter._ ” Robb licked his lips. “We are all coming.”

Theon did not need to be told twice, taking the bow from his friend and taking the path to the stables.

“Did Father say I have to go?” The real question was: _can I go?_

“He didn’t say it.” Robb conceded. “I say you can go”

Lyarra’s chest felt warm. She loved her brother. He had always stood up for her, even before his mother; defending her right to attend the feast, just a few nights before. While his attempt had been futile and it had only served to convince Lady Catelyn that she was a whispering snake in her son’s ear, Lyarra appreciated deeply.

“Don’t get in trouble for me.” She pleaded. “The future Warden of the North shouldn’t interfere so much for a bastard”

“I don’t care that you are a bastard.” He insisted, like had done so many times before. “You are my sister!”

“Besides,” he added. “Bran is coming too.”

“ _Bran?_ ”

“He’s growing up, Lya.”

In her mind, even when he had sons of his own and a grey beard, Bran would never cease to be the baby Robb had placed on her arms after sneaking him out of the nursery. Now there was a reason for her to go. She snatched the gloves off his hand. “Are we going or not?

 

 

* * *

 

 

“But why does Lyarra get to go and I _don’t_?” Her younger sister was fuming.

Arya saw no reason why her older sister could join their father’s riding party and she couldn’t.

“You are still young,” Robb ruffled her hair. “Lyarra is a grown woman.”

Lyarra failed to cover her snort, Robb only cared to call her grown woman if it meant he was a grown man.

“Then why _Bran_ can go?”

Robb was unfazed by the fury in her little body.

“Bran is a boy. Besides, he’s riding with Lyarra”

Lyarra winced inwardly, that had been the wrong thing to say, and soon enough, Robb’s shin was kicked. Arya fumed back to the castle as she gritted her teeth. Her brother cursed under his breath. Theon did not bother to hide his laughter and neither did Lyarra.

When Lord Eddard appeared, the men climbed their horses. Lyarra helped Bran mount along with her, the boy barely complained about having to ride with his older sister. Lyarra’s father spared her a glance and a raised eyebrow, making her straighten on her seat. He said nothing and got on his horse too. Good.

The man was terrified. He kept whispering to himself and didn’t seem to be completely aware of the situation. It chilled Lyarra’s bones, there was barely any resistance in him.

When the time came, Bran had to keep himself from burying his face in Lyarra’s chest, but her hands were firm over his in the saddle, keeping the horse and Bran still.

Lord Eddard brought down _Ice_ and they were done.

Lyarra felt Bran shaking lightly against her. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” he said, a bit too quickly. It was the first time he was deemed old enough to join his father’s men and his siblings, he couldn’t show Lyarra how upset it had made him feel.

She opened her mouth to speak once more, but Robb was quick to dare her a race to the castle. Theon kicked her horse before she could answer and it sprinted forward swiftly, quick as the wind. Bran yelped and Lyarra cursed. Theon and Robb laughed, and were soon following them

The wind felt nice against her face, it wasn’t often that she got ride so fast. One could only scape Septa Mordane’s lessons once in a while. The vast green lands that extended before her felt endless. Lyarra’s horse jumped a pond and dived right into the woods. Robb wasn’t so far, but he was definitely getting closer. Bran laughed loudly, his voice reverberating against her chest.

“Lya, _stop!_ ” Robb suddenly shouted. Her hands pulled back the reins so hard, the horse almost threw them off.

“Easy boy, easy.” Her eyes went to Robb. “What was that?!”

But his eyes weren’t in her. Not far from where she had just jumped laid a bear, no, a _wolf_. A massive wolf, the biggest she had ever seen. Dead, with a stag’s antlers deep in her throat and whining pups on her belly. It took them a second to realize what they were.

“Direwolves,” Hullen, the master of horses, whispered. Their father’s men had stopped right after them when they heard the commotion.

“These are alive,” Theon let them know, holding one up by the back of its neck. “I’ll be better if we kill them before something else does.”

“No!”

“Bran, stay back.” Lyarra warned before getting closer. Her father got off his horse.

“Theon is right, better to kill them quickly.” Father spoke. “These are not common dogs, Bran, they are dangerous.”

Hullen nodded in agreement. “What are they even doing this side of the Wall?” He wondered.

“Please Father, I’ll take care of them myself-I’ll-”

Lyarra could see the unshed tears forming in her little brother’s eyes. She stared at the pups, counting. “My Lord!” She interfered. It was odd for her to address him so formally, for she knew her father didn’t like it. “There five pups here. You were meant to find these. Three males and two females, one for each Stark children.” Sadness filled her father’s eyes.

“You don’t want one for yourself, Lya?”

She shook her head. “They were meant for your trueborn children, my Lord.” She could feel every eye on her, Robb’s gaze in particular, digging holes on the back of her head. Bran’s expression softened.

Her father turned to her brothers. “They shall be _your_ responsibilities.”

Containing a squeal of joy, Bran quickly went to grab one for himself, while Robb took off his cape to wrap it around another. The men helped to carry the others.

“We can share this one, Lya.” Bran offered brightly, showing her the silvery-gray pup with yellow eyes. “I don’t mind.” Her heart twisted painfully.

As the party made its way back to the castle, Lyarra heard a low whine and the sound of something walking over leaves. “Did you hear that?”

Bran blinked at her and so did Robb. “Hear what?”

They couldn’t hear it?

“Hold the reins for me,” she asked her brother.

She found it a few steps away. The runt of the litter, albino with big red eyes. She was far from where her siblings had been found, as if she had been rejected and abandoned by the mother. Lyarra cradled her as if were her own babe.

If anyone what it was like, it was Lyarra.

“Now we all have one!” Bran cheered.

 _Ghost_ , she named her. The pup hid her face on her neck and slept on her bed that night and the ones that followed. Her soft fur was comforting and somehow familiar.

She stared at the ceiling of her room, dimly lightened by the fire of a candle. She was prone to fits of melancholy. Thoughts of the circumstances of her birth often plagued her in the night, leaving her unable to sleep properly. Her looks were Stark, so there was no doubt that Lord Eddard was her father.

 _But what of your mother?_ A voice whispered, one that seemed unable to let rest.

Was she the child of the dornish beauty, Ashara Dayne, who had jumped off a cliff when her father took her child and left the sword of a dead man in exchange? Lyarra had heard the whispers more than enough, and if her father had never done anything to silence them, it had to mean something. Right?

 _Had it been love?_ She often wondered. Whether it had been or not, it wouldn’t change the fact that Lyarra was a bastard. But it was different to be one born of love. Her father wouldn’t stain his honor for lust, she fiercely believed.

Septa Mordane would say that all bastards are born of lust and sin, regardless of any love involved

 

 

* * *

 

 

The King and his people finally arrived, two days before the estimated.

Everyone was in a rush, and even Lyarra, who had no actual chores to do, was caught in the middle of the frenzy. Arya was nowhere to be found and someone had to climb the Broken Tower to get Bran down. Of course, it fell on her.

After retrieving her little sister and the helmet she’d stolen, Lyarra knelt to wipe the dirt on her face. Arya just smiled, full of mischief. Bran had come down on his own, for which Lyarra was thankful. Once done with them, she had done her best to make herself presentable. Not too pretty, for it would steal the eyes meant for her sisters, but not shaggy either, for it would make others think that Lord Eddard could not provide for those under him.

Lyarra had been hidden in the second line, the same line as Maester Luwin and Sir Rodrik. Still a place of honor, even if it wasn’t along her siblings. The King greeted every Stark individually. Praising Sansa’s beauty, making the girl beam under the attention, ruffling Rickon’s hair and studying Bran’s muscles. He greeted Lady Catelyn as if they were lifelong friends, something that visibly startled her, which made Lyarra smile a bit.

The King was fat, Lyarra dully noted. In her Father’s stories, he had made the man sound like the Warrior incarnate, a towering muscular monster that defeated anyone that crossed his way. Also, if he had so many bastards, shouldn’t he have a charming quality that won him women? He didn’t seem that handsome or graceful, and Lyarra was sure that those were crumbs of bread in his beard.

Theon would say that coin was enough charm, she thought. And he would know well, for sure.

A hand appeared in her line of vision, gloved and with a fine embroidery. Her stomach turned, when her eyes went up, grey met deep blue. She was forced to take it. The King was silent, his eyes running through her form. Lyarra suddenly felt naked. She had once gone to the market of Wintertown with Robb, where horses were paraded around to the best buyer. She felt quite like a horse being eyed. Her gaze went fleetly to Robb’s seeking help, to find fire in his eyes.

The courtyard was silent. The King was making everyone uncomfortable. Lyarra just knew that if there was fire in her brother’s eyes, there was _wildfire_ in Lady Catelyn’s. Lyarra was going to pay for this in one way or the other. King Robert still hadn’t let go of her hand.

“You must be Ned’s bastard.” The King finally spoke and before she could answer, he continued. “What’s your name, girl?”

She bowed, as was expected from her. “I’m called Lyarra Snow.”

“You look a lot like your Aunt,” He continued, as if they had all the time in the world and all of Winterfell wasn’t on their knees.  The smell of wine reached her nose. His eyes filled with sadness, and if she hadn’t been so mortified, Lyarra would have felt for the man. “She was a great beauty. As you are.” He grunted.  “She would have been a greater wife, and I’m sure that you will-“

“Your Grace,” The Queen’s gelid voice interrupted them. “It’s been a long journey, everyone is tired. I’m sure that any conversations can wait until later.” The King did not seem happy, but he grunted hi approval. The courtyard cleared quickly, the servants returning to their stations. As soon as the attention was off her, Lyarra turned in her heels and ran to the Godswoods, not before hearing Theon’s laughter.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ghost had found her way to her, as she always seemed to do. Lyarra sunk to the ground and buried her face in the white pup’s fur. She stayed like that for what seemed like hours. She felt shame climbing up her throat.

“In front of _everyone_ , Ghost. I’m glad I didn’t see my Father’s face, Gods know what he must think of this.”

What had she been thinking? For years, she had been the ghost of her Father’s dead sister. She should have hidden in her rooms until the last day of the court’s staying. Ghost licked her face tenderly and Lyarra sighed, petting her lightly.

“Lady Catelyn is going to kill me for this.” Her fingers untangled the knots on the fur. “She’s wanted me dead since she first saw me and now she’s a reason.”

“The King was out of place, I’ve already talked to him.” Lyarra jumped from her spot on the ground, and so did Ghost. Her father stared at her with kindness. _Wonderful_ , she was now the source of conflict between her father and the King.

“I’m sorry,” she offered weakly. “I shouldn’t have been there on the first place.”

“You are a Stark. You belonged there as much any of your siblings.”

 _I bet Lady Stark has something to say about that_ , Lyarra thought. She did not voice it, however.

“I’m not a Stark.” She pointed out. What was with Robb and Father trying to make her forget of a truth that the world wouldn’t? “I’m a Snow.”

“You have my blood, and that makes you a Stark.” Her father’s voice left no room for arguments. “Come back with me, it’s getting late.”

“Late for what?” She wondered. “I’m not allowed at the feast, Lady Stark said so.” And after the recent affair, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there anyway. Men got touchy and high spirited after too much wine and beer. And the King already smelled like a cellar.

“You can be at the lower tables.” He smiled reassuringly. “No one will say anything. Believe me.”

Lyarra tried to give him a smile of her own.

Soon enough, the walls of Winterfell surrounded her once more. Ghost wasn’t allowed to enter the Hall. Lyarra protested: Ghost was good, smaller than the others and would behave just _fine_ she assured. But her Father wouldn’t hear it. All the other wolves were locked in the kennel as well. Lyarra was forced to say goodbye, with the promise to bring treats with her return.

Much like she’d anticipated, the King was well into his cups by the time Lyarra arrived. All of her siblings were at the high table with her father and Lady Catelyn. Hers and Robb's eyes met for a second, and he gave her a reassuring smile, which Lyarra tried to return. Arya was running around with other children, while Sansa sat by Jeyne Poole's side, giggling at the Prince. Lyarra shook her head at them.

She was wearing one of her simpler gowns, and thus she blended easily amongst her Father’s men. The northmen didn’t look at her twice, unlike some of the king’s men and the Lannisters. Theon even came to join her at some point, a girl on his lap and a drink on his hand.

Lyarra looked at him with contempt, and the barest hint of amusement.

He had been on the same line as her in the morning. The bastard and the squid, both offenses to the eye of the King. Delegated to the lower tables.

“May I join you both on this lovely evening?”

Lyarra almost chocked on her beer. The Imp was standing before her, as if she were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. Lyarra shared a quick look with Theon, who shrugged. “By all means, Lord Lannister” Who was she to deny the Queen’s brother?

The Imp, as he was called, had entered the Hall with his older, and much better looking, brother. The Kingslayer, who Lyarra was rather curious about, was currently sitting on the higher tables, sharing wine and mead with the other lords that accompanied the King. So why had this man gone to the lower tables?

“You have caused quite the commotion, Lady Snow.” The lord sipped his wine. “I must admit, I was eager to see up close the Bastard of Winterfell.” Lyarra’s lips thinned. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I offend you?”

“No, Lord Lannister. You did not.”

His smile was a gruesome thing, Lyarra tried to keep her sight on his eyes without letting her eyes wonder. “Lord Tyrion, I insist.” She nodded respectfully, but said nothing more. If he was searching for amusement, he’d be sorely disappointed. Lyarra was no one’s fool.

“I was hoping to see the Wall, since we are so close. I can’t miss the chance to piss from the top of the world.” The Imp finished his wine with pleased moan. “Have you ever been there?”

“I-“

“Women aren’t allowed in the Night’s Watch.” Theon decided to answer for her.

“If I had been born a man, I would already had joined the Watch.” Lyarra informed him, ignoring Theon. “But no, I’ve never been to the Wall.” Not for a lack of desire. As children, she and Robb had promised that one day, they’d steal horses and ride north together; they’d pass the wall to meet the giants and monsters that lived beyond.

“But you’d like to.” Tyrion noted. “Who knows, we could go together. The bastard and the dwarf.” Again with calling her bastard. “I heard the Night’s Watch doesn’t care if you’re highborn or baseborn, they all get treated equally bad there.”

That _did_ irked her, her Uncle Benjen was a man of the Watch. She would not let him drag his name.

“Those are honorable men, they’ve sworn to protect the realm-“

“Against grumkins and snarks, yes.” He completed. “And from wildlings, even though they are all the same kind of people.”

Lyarra bit her tongue, remembering her place. The morning had been bad enough, she didn’t need to offend the Queen’s brother too. “If you say so, my Lord.” Theon threw her a look, Lyarra half feared and half hoped that he’d initiate a fight of his own with the Imp, if just to get the attention away from her.

She enjoyed a peaceful silence before the little man decided to speak again.

“Lady Snow, would you mind passing me the wine?”

“Lyarra is not your serving girl.” Theon grunted, already well into his fourth cup. “You can serve your own damn wine Imp, or climb back to the high table.”

Instead of becoming angered or offended, Lord Tyrion shrugged. “I _can_ serve my own wine, but I cannot reach it, you dimwit.” To prove it, he extended his short arms. He was sitting at the end of the table at Lyarra’s left, while the jar was at her right. Lord Tyrion could not, in fact reach it.

A smile threatened to form on her lips, but she just took the jar and filled his cup to the brim.

“Thank you, Lady Snow, you are very kind.”

_Then why won’t you stop calling me that?_

Robb would constantly call her Snow, when he wasn’t calling her Lya. But in other people’s lips it sounded like an insult, a jab to her bastardy and a joke to her expense.

“I mean no ill by my words.” Lyarra feigned ignorance. “I see how you flinch, Lady Snow. Is it that you aren’t a bastard?”

“Yes I am.” She spat, as if the world could ever let her forget. From her Septa to lady Catelyn, and now the Imp, of all people.

“Why does it bite you so much? You won’t stop being one just because-“

“What do you know about being a bastard?” She cut him, all pleasantries forgotten.

Lord Tyrion did not flinch. “All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes, but not all bastards are dwarves.” Lyarra frowned, the lord sighed. “Don’t forget your truth, for the world surely won’t. Make it your best shield and they’ll never be able to use it as a weapon.”

Tyrion Lannister stood taller than the king, Lyarra realized. If his father was anything like him, the realm was in clever hands. But much like Theon often did, Tyrion ruined it.

“By the time you have Snows of your own, you will care little for others opinions.”

“I’ll never mother a Snow!” Her voice rose involuntarily. The conversations at her table died and every head turned to her; ashamed and upset, Lyarra ran from the Hall.


	2. A bard plays the lute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyarra is taken away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys ever read anything that sounds strange, it's because english is not my first language and I'm slowly trying to improve. With that said, enjoy! :)

As soon as she steps outside of the Hall, Lyarra realizes her mistake. The night is as chilly and unforgiving as the North itself. She wraps her arms around her middle as the tears make way on her cheeks. Once more, she had brought shame upon her father and herself.

Making her way through the snowy path, Lyarra was in dire need of a blanket to cover herself. She would have preferred Ghost’s soft fur and comforting licks, but the Direwolves were to be kept in the kennels until the end of the feast. _Sadly_ , Lyarra thought. Ghost kept up with her moods as if they shared a soul.

Lady Catelyn’s little sept was right across the Great Hall, as if mocking Lyarra with its so called holiness. The stables, however, were nearby and welcoming. If she couldn’t pet Ghost, then she’d go to her horse. Servants passed by her side without sparing her a glance, carrying trays of food and jars of wine –Lyarra feared for their winter reserves-, but other than them, there wasn’t a single soul in sight.

 _Makes sense_ , she thought. Every man, northerner or southron, was enjoying themselves at the feast. And those who were not invited were on their rooms, protecting themselves from the cold of the night. Lyarra was neither, once more on her own.

Lyarra had thought she knew loneliness, but years ago, when her father had taken Robb and Theon to meet with Lord Karstark, she had known what being _truly_ alone was like. Without her brother and Theon as an excuse, she couldn’t attend to Ser Rodrik’s lessons with the sword. Arya, barely more than a toddler, wasn’t yet able to sneak out to see her often. The servants of Winterfell were _kind_ to her, but distant. Jeyne Poole was more of age with Sansa than with Lyarra, and due to their similar upbringing, she was as fond of her as Sansa.

When her lord Father had returned, Theon and Robb on tail, she had forgotten all etiquette and little Lyarra had thrown herself at his arms. The next time he rode to Karhold, Lyarra had gone too.

The stables welcomed her, the wind didn’t blow inside and it wasn’t nearly as cold as outside. Hullen was not around, likely in the Great Hall with everyone else. Lyarra’s horse, a black stallion named Coal, was in his stall. He made a noise when he saw her coming, and a small smile found its way to Lyarra’s face.

She was brushing away some hay from his hair when someone else entered the stables. Lyarra rose to her feet, quickly wiping away any traces of tears left on her face. It was a man and he was holding a…lute?

Lyarra frowned, who was him?

He didn’t seem to be aware of her presence, too busy humming to himself what Lyarra thought to be 'The Dornishman’s wife'. He was on the look for his own horse, for he checked every stable until he stumbled upon Lyarra. “Oh,” he said, surprised. “Good evening.”

At a loss of words, Lyarra could only reply. “Good evening.”

“Could you help me find my horse? I’m afraid I don’t know where the master is.” _He thinks I work here_ , Lyarra realized. With her simple dress and skirt full of hay, not to mention the brush on her hand, it wouldn’t be a wild assumption.

“Hullen is back at the feast,” Lyarra provided.

“ _Hullen_ ,” he agreed, “a kind man, he helped me well enough, but I don’t think he has me in high esteem.” Lyarra chuckled, despite herself, bards weren’t seen kindly in the North. Singing was for fools and women and Lyarra told him so.

“At least in the North,” she added. “But you came with the King’s court, right?”

The bard stared at her. He was handsome, but he had to be around her father’s age, there were lines of laughter around his eyes and most of his brown hair had turned gray. “I did not, I hail from the Riverlands.”

In any other occasion, she would have been wary of a man she didn’t knew, but the bard didn’t feel like a threat despite his size. In fact, there was something almost familiar about him. Lyarra couldn’t place him.

“Oh.”

“I heard of the King’s visit and I saw a chance to make myself known.” He smiled jokingly. “But the man was more interested in the serving girls than in my songs.”

Lyarra had to contain a snort. That sounded like the king.

“My lady, if I may ask, why is it that you were crying?”

Her eyes went down instinctively and her back stiffened. “What did your horse look like?”

The bard seemed to pick on her mood, for he did not press the issue. “A pretty brown mare.” Lyarra nodded and lead the way, the mares were kept on a different place than the stallions.  The man followed her in silence, and a twinge of guilt invaded her. The man had asked out of concern, not in ill spirit.

“I was not invited to the feast.” She offered. “I wasn’t supposed to be there. “

“Neither I was,” he pointed out. “I just slipped in with the other musicians.”

Lyarra smiled a bit. “I’ll have to tell Lord Stark, you could have been an assassin.”

“Who could I possibly slay with a lute?” The man laughed, he didn’t seem worried. “You southroners have the funniest ideas.”

Lyarra frowned. “You mean _northerners?”_

“That.”

Weird, but she thought nothing of it. They finally reached the mare’s side, and the man proceeded to look into every stall once more.

“I forgot how common horses are here.” He petted the snout of the mare and the thing huffed. “This is my pretty girl.” She had no mount, only a white fur over its back. Lyarra’s hand went to touch it, it was soft, but not in the same way as Ghost’s.

“What is this?”

“White sheep.” Her eyebrows raised.

“Oh.” How silly of her, not to notice. It didn’t _feel_ like sheep. The covers she had over her bed were made of white sheep, and both the feel and the look were different. But who was Lyarra to question the bard’s choice on seats?

They opened the stall’s door, letting the mare walk out.

“Are you certain it’s wise to leave?” Lyarra asked him. “The night its cold and the roads are unsafe in the darkness.”

The bard smiled once more. “I wouldn’t call myself a gifted warrior, but I assure you, I’ll take care of myself.” He lifted the lute, as if to prove he had a weapon. Bards were a bit of fools truly.

She accompanied the man to the doors of the stable, both of them still down on their feet with the mare walking behind them. Snow was falling outside. Lyarra had always liked the feeling of it against her skin, even as a child. Snow also gave place for children’s naughtiness. She already felt for anyone near Arya and her snowballs.

It came to her mind, the memory of her and Robb making a huge snow mountain on top of a gate. They had pushed it over the first person passing by, the unfortunate Fat-Tom. But before they had done it, they had been discovered by a man, a brother of the Night’s Watch that-

Lyarra froze on the spot, her eyes going to the bard.

She had found the missing piece of the puzzle that was this man’s identity. Mance Rayder. She had met him before, when the then Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had visited Winterfell years ago. Lyarra had been allowed to attend that feast, she recalled, she and Robb had spent the night enjoying his tales.

She saw in his eyes that he knew he had been recognized.

In a split of a second, the word _traitor_ pounded on her ears. This man had betrayed the Watch and he was at Winterfell, dressed as a musician and playing the lute as if her lord Father wouldn’t cut his head if he was discovered.

Lyarra took a step back.

“Stay away from me.”

“My lady-“

“You are a traitor,”

Mance winced. "I'm more like a pursuer of freedom."

"You swore an oath and you broke it. That makes you a traitor."

He laughed, throwing back his head. "May the Others take me if you are not a Stark." His voice was easy, but his posture betrayed the smile on his face.

She had no weapons with her, her hands ached for a sword, a dagger, anything to protect herself.

“What are you doing here? Why are you on this side of the Wall?”

“I heard that king Robert was coming to Winterfell, thought to see the king of the kneelers for myself.” He took a step towards her and Lyarra took one back. “Can’t say I’m impressed.”

Lyarra wouldn’t acknowledge him the fact that she wasn’t impressed either.

“I don’t believe you,” she pressed. “ _What do you want?_ ”

The man stared at her blankly. The sincerity in his eyes did not match the lies on his tongue. “I told you, I wanted to see the king.”

How long it would take her to run back to the Great Hall, she wondered frantically, what were the odds that he would chase after her and caught her easily.

Lyarra decided to take her chances. She screamed. The shrill type of sound that she had only done once before, when Theon had thrown a dead fish’s head at her –she had been surprised-. The mare jumped, scared, throwing Mance Rayder, who was holding the reins, off balance.

Lyarra ran.

She didn’t make it far, however. Before she could take five steps in the snow, a solid wall of muscle tackled her on the ground. Lyarra grunted, squirming wildly in the ground. But it was futile, he was way stronger than her.

Mance Rayder grunted too. “I hope you find it in you to forgive me.” Then, something blunt hit her in the back of her head, the rest was darkness.

 

* * *

 

Robb noticed too late that Lyarra was missing. He had gone to put Arya to bed after she had thrown some food at Sansa and Jeyne Poole, -his mother hadn’t appreciated his laughter- and Robb had been sent to take care of it. About _two_ hours later, the little wolf was sleeping and Robb was making his way back to the feast.

He hoped he hadn’t missed much, Arya had demanded explanations of why she had to go, then of why she should sleep alone if Nymeria usually slept with her, and finally, she had insisted on hearing a tale from Robb. As if he were Old Nan. After three different tales of the old Targaryen kings, his sister had started to yawn as her eyelids betrayed her. Thus, Robb had been able to escape.

He stumbled upon Theon leaving the Great Hall, with a worried look on his face, which immediately set him on edge. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m going to find Lyarra.” The Greyjoy let him know. Robb frowned, confused.

“Wasn’t she inside? I’m certain I saw her.”

Robb failed to see the contempt in his friend’s words. “You wouldn’t know what went on the lower tables. The Imp was drunk, he said some shit and made her mad.” He pointed at were Robb came from. “I thought she had gone to you.”

“I didn’t see her, I was with Arya.” Robb palmed his shoulder. “You can go back inside, I’ll look for her.”

Theon opened his mouth, as if he wanted to complain, but then he closed it. He nodded, pressing his lips in a thin line once Robb turned back.

Robb went to the kennels. He was sure that Lyarra would go to find Ghost if she felt sad or afraid. He idly wondered what the Imp had said to make her upset, Lyarra had quite the thick skin. He shook his head, the snow was clinging to his hair. He could barely see six steps forward, if the snow continued, there would be no hunt tomorrow. A shame, he was fond of hunting and so was Lyarra.

By the time he had crossed the courtyard and passed by the Library Tower, Robb was wet from head to toe. Lyarra had better been at the kennels and not in her warm room.

The kennelmaster was there, sitting on a chair as he drank and ate. It made sense that, since he had been one of the only men to stay in his place –for the Direwolves _could not_ be left alone-, someone had brought him his part of the feast.

His sister Lyarra was nowhere in sight.

“Farlen?” When he saw his lord, the man rose.

“Lord Robb,” he nodded. “Have you come to see your little beast?”

He smiled at the mention of Grey Wind. “Actually, I was looking for my sister. Did Lyarra came by here?”

The man shook his head. “I haven’t seen her in all night.”

Robb frowned. “Is Ghost here?”

“Yes, she hasn’t stopped whining. And she’s not hungry, I’ve thrown her some meat but she won’t have it.” In that moment, they heard it, a mournful sound. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, and an uneasy feeling settled on his stomach.

Robb moved inside, where he could see the white beast laying on the floor. The bars had bite marks over it, as if Ghost had tried to get out. Her eyes met Robb’s, and he could swear it was his sister staring back.

“Can you let her out?”

“Lord Stark said that none of them could leave until the end of the feast.”

Robb bit his lip. “I’ll keep her away from the Great Hall.” He promised, but the man wasn’t moved.

“I’m sorry Lord Robb, but I can’t disobey your father.”

Robb didn’t stay a second more, and found himself running as if the Others were behind him as he left the kennels. Something was wrong. He couldn’t reach the Great Hall soon enough.

Behind him, the pack howled.

 

* * *

 

Lyarra awakens with a sore back and a dry mouth. The pain in the back of her head was also worthy of notice. Had she fallen on her face? How much had she drank at the feast? The last time she had gotten drunk was the night of her flowering. Her father had allowed her to drink wine during dinner, and Theon had managed to refill her cup as many times as his. Which had ultimately ended with her stumbling her way to her room.

The headache she carried now was worse than the one she had the day after that. It took her a moment to realize this wasn’t her straw mattress; Lyarra was laying in the floor, if her stiff body was anything to go by. She blinked a few times, trying to free her view of the fogginess. Everything was hazy. She tried to bring up her hands to rub her eyes, only to find them tightly bound together.

 _Calm down_ , she told herself, even as the panic rose steadily within her. Her body was wrapped in the woolen blanket she had seen on the mare, she pushed it off and her hands touched the ground. The cold dirt met her fingers and as she inhaled deeply, the smell of wet leaves filled her nostrils. She was no longer within Winterfell’s walls. She turned her head around, wildly. This wasn’t the Godswoods Lyarra knew as the back of her hand.

Her stomach turned, threatening to spill whatever was left of the night’s wine. She had to keep the nausea down. She could be _anywhere._ And where on Earth was Mance Rayder?

The mare was nearby, tied to a tree. There was a little fire next to her, dying, the kind that didn’t produce enough smoke to be noticed. Lyarra stared at the sky, behind the clouds, the sun was right above her. It had to be mid-day at least. Surely someone had noticed she was gone.

Or maybe they hadn’t. It came to her mind, wildly, _what if they thought she had run away?_ The last someone had seen her had been at the feast, when she had stormed off in rage. They’ll believe she was just a stupid bastard girl, who had dared to have pride and in turn got hurt because of it. And no one would think there’s a man reckless enough to steal a daughter from the castle’s Lord.

If Mance Rayder had proven something the night before, it was his recklessness.

And now he proved his intelligence, for her ankles are tied as well. He’s nowhere in sight, so Lyarra crouches and begins to untie –or try to- the knots. She feels too much like an animal in a trap. They never got off of them, and the sinking feeling that she won’t either threatens to drown her.

A scream of desperation escapes her. Her fingers are too stiff to move and the rope tightens around her slim wrists with each tug she gives.

“I didn’t spend five moons learning those for you to undo them in five minutes.”

Her head shot up. There he was, staring down at her with a lopsided smile. In one hand he held a sharp thing that could be kindly called a knife, in the other, he held the reins of the mare.

“Now, we have a _long_ road ahead. I can untie you and you’ll get in the horse with me, no fighting and no screaming. Or I can throw you over it like a sack of potatoes and carry you like that all the way.” He told her. Lyarra had to keep herself from spiting at him. “I really don’t want to do that, and I’m sure you don’t want me to do it either.”

“What do you want?”

Mance Rayder shrugged. “Right now? I’d like you to get on the horse so we can get moving.”

“What do you _really_ want?” She licked her dry lips. “Why did you came to Winterfell, where are you taking me?”

“I’ll answer all your questions when you get on the horse.” He responded. “I mean no harm to you, Lyarra Snow.” And he seemed sincere, but her tied limbs and pained head painted another story. She swallowed the little pride she had left.

“I need help to get up”, she sounded like a little girl and she hated it. Arya had once fallen from a three while she was climbing, with a soft voice unlike her and teary eyes, she had asked Robb to carry her.

Lyarra’s heart twisted on her chest. Had her siblings noticed she was gone?

Mance threw snow to kill what was left of the fire, then he cut the rope that held her ankles together and sat her on the horse. Her hands remained bound, however. Lyarra noticed that the lute was hanging from his shoulder, tied with a cord around him. He placed himself behind her and gently kicked the mare’s side.

“Where are we?” She couldn’t help but ask. It bothered her, not being able to recognize her surroundings.

“Right now? I don’t have the faintest idea.” He was good at playing the fool, Lyarra would give him that. “But I’d say it’s quite nice. It’s been a while since I’ve seen so much green.”

She frowned, even though he couldn’t see her. She wouldn’t have called the forest before them green, of all things. It seemed brown and white, mostly, with bits of grass here and there. But the man had already proven himself to be mad, so Lyarra wasn’t going to contradict him.

“Why were you at Winterfell?”

Mance Rayder sighed. “I wasn't lying when I told you that I wanted to see the king of the kneelers. I may have been inspired by a certain tale…" Lyarra sensed that he wanted to tell it, and once long ago, both she and Robb had stayed the whole night listening to him. Mance was as good as Old Nan when it came to stories.

But she was tied and held against her will, so she wouldn't grant him the pleasure.

"You keep calling us _kneelers_."

If Mance was disappointed, he didn't show. "Well that's what you are. The lot of you southroners, kneeling before some pretty animal on a banner or a fool with a greater man’s blood.”

“We only kneel before the rightful king.” She protested, even if King Robert did not help his own case. “And stop calling us southroners, we are from the North.”

“Well the rightful king is a rightful fool.” Mance pointed out. “And the one true North is the one north of the Wall, everything else is the South.”

Lyarra huffed, sensing that she wasn’t making any progress with this conversation.

“Why did you take me with you?” The dreaded words left her mouth.

“I wasn’t planning on to.” He swore. “But if someone had found you knocked out on the stables, they would have thrown you a bucket of water and you’d have ratted me out to them.”

“ _Rat you out?_ ” She repeated, dumfounded. “You are wanted for being a deserter and you went to a feast where people knew you. _You_ ratted yourself out.” For a second, she felt as if she were discussing with Theon.

Mance did not respond, only looked forward.

 

* * *

 

Theon wouldn't have blamed her for leaving. Fair enough, he had fantasied with doing it himself many times. Lyarra was pretty enough, she had plenty of wit and mind -something that Theon would only admit in his head-. It shouldn't be hard for her to form a life beyond Winterfell's walls.

The thing was, he didn't believe she had run. And neither did Robb, who had never dared to look so helpless in the eyes of others. He had interrupted what little was left of the feast. With a wild expression that mimicked the one of his wolf, he had gone straight to his father, passing by Theon. He had been too far to hear whatever he had told lord Stark, but the way the man's eyes darkened said it all.

Discreetly, men were sent to look on every corner of Winterfell, Robb and Theon included. It took hours, long hours of futile search through every library, stable, crypt and secret passage. To end with not a clue of Lyarra's fate. Coal had been on his stall, and so had been all the other horses. The guards swore they had seen no one suspicious, only servants had crossed the gates.

Lyarra was nowhere to be found. 

So when every bit of dust had been lifted, they told the king. The news didn't sobered him up, as some would describe, Theon would say, instead, that they had cleared his eyes from the smoked hams and wine and had clouded them with rage. 

 _How dare them!_ He had shouted for everyone to hear. There was no _them ,_ Theon idly thought, they still weren't sure of what had happened or _who_ had happened. These thoughts, he kept to himself. It was the second time a Stark girl had been stolen from right under his nose and the king was  _not_ happy about it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no miystery to Mance's intentions. For those who have not read the books, Mance literally attends the feast and plays the lute bc he felt like it and no one noticed bc a)they didn't know him or b) they didn't recognize him. Which I find funny as hell.
> 
> And for the record, he's not yet the King-beyond-the-Wall. The plot shall thicken later, for now we kinda chill. 
> 
> How many of you saw this, ahem, him coming?


	3. The snow that covers the path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for the Bastard of Winterfell begins. Lyarra and Mance continue their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that this is a slow-burn. I might need to increase the chapter count.

When a week went by without any news on her older sister, Arya decided that it was time to intervene. She packed a change of clothes, a piece of cheese and wrapped herself in a fur. She didn’t even make it to the first line of guards before she was stopped by Ser Rodrik. Apparently, having a direwolf following you betrayed any intentions of passing by inadvertently.

The man had tried to ease her, all while he simultaneously tried to scold her about her rash decisions.

“Think about the lady Stark, how would your mother feel if you just vanished?” The man had asked, trying to talk some sense into her.

“But what about Lya?” Arya had pushed back, at the verge of tears. “Why haven’t they found her yet?”

And why did so many act as if they didn’t care? The people at Winterfell went on with their lives as if it were any common day, as if Lyarra wasn’t missing. Sansa spent her days doing embroidery with her friend, Jeyne Poole, and with Princess Myrcella. Her mother directed the household and kept polite conversations with the Queen, who did not even bother to express her worries, unlike the King.

“It snowed for two days, the roads were blocked and every trace was erased.” The man explained. “My lady, you must not worry, I trained your sister myself. She’s a smart girl, sharp and quick on her feet. Any trials the Gods may put on her way, she shall pass them.”

His words were kind and reassuring, but they did nothing to ease Arya. She wanted to take a horse and Nymeria and join her father’s men on the search. Her father, who looked as if he hadn’t been able to sleep since her sister’s disappearance.

Arya sniffed as she swallowed her tears. Ser Rodrik left her at the stables, with the promise that her brother and Then would be arriving soon. They had been allowed to join the search parties for her sister, unlike Arya. Robb had been lately spending more time in the wolfswood than in Winterfell. There were dark circles under her older brother’s eyes and he went everywhere with a haunted look in his face. Mother was worried for him, and so was Arya.

“Will we ever go hunting?” A familiar voice complained. Arya lowered her to knees to avoid being spotted. That was the prince! “All this hassle for some bastard girl?” Arya’s blood ran hotly.

The prince wasn’t alone, the voice of the Imp joined him. “This bastard girl is Lord Stark’s beloved daughter, so you’ll go later and offer your help in the search.”

Joffrey scoffed. “Why should I? There are already enough of my men helping.”

“You will because it’s expected from you, and your absence has already been noticed.” The Imp said. “And they are not your men, they are your father’s men.”

“She’s probably already dead and rotting.”

Arya’s stomach dropped, then the sound of a slap and a low whine filled her ears.

“One more word and I hit you again.” None other than Tyrion Lannister warned.

“I’m telling Moth-“Again, a slap. Then the prince stomped away angrily from the stable, with his loyal Dog right behind him. Arya stayed still for long after they were out of sight, waiting for the Imp to go away as well.

Theon had told her that Lyarra had left the feast because of him, apparently there had been a big commotion while Arya was with Robb in her rooms. She had thought a lot about it, the guilt heaving upon her. If she hadn't kept Robb for so long, maybe he'd have noticed that Lyarra was gone earlier, and they would have found whoever had stolen her. Because Arya was certain that there had been _someone_ , Lyarra was a Stark! She would never run away in the night.

Specially, she thought sadly, without saying goodbye first.

Robb arrived eventually, by then Arya's tears had dried. She looked up hopefully, but her brother's expression and Lyarra's absence told her everything she needed. Grey Wind walked by the horse's side, even though he terrified it. Arya petted him gently and he rubbed his head against her middle. Her dress was covered in hair, Septa Mordane would certainly scold her once she returned to her lessons, but Arya couldn't bring herself to care.

"I keep telling them that two scouts aren't enough." Robb complained to Theon. "Only _two_ men searching the wolfswood? Two _southron_ men?" He shook his head, furious.

"Search parties are constantly being sent." Theon pointed out. Arya was baffled, since when he was the voice of reason? "Ravens have been sent to White Harbor, if someone tries to take her south, they'll stop them."

It wasn't enough for Robb, who remained sour-faced. "There's also the matter of Winterfell's reserves, the King's court is overstaying." He muttered.

"We are soon to run out of wine." Theon added. "When that happens, the King will go back to King's Landing. I assure you."

Arya snorted and a small smile formed in Robb's lips. "At least we can be sure of that."

 

* * *

 

Turns out, Mance Rayder liked ‘The Dornishman’s Wife’ a _lot_. He hummed it, sang it and played it more often than not. Lyarra was certain he was mocking her in some way, if she had been a man –Robb, Theon, Father- he wouldn’t be at such ease with her. It bothered more than she cared to admit, even if it did make sense. But she refused to voice any complains, knowing that the man enjoyed to talk and would never end once he started.

They had been riding for about a week, if Lyarra was correct. She couldn’t be sure, for the first nights had been sleepless and she had lost track of the time passed. Mance was no fool, he wouldn’t rest until Lyarra’s eyes were sewn shut. It had been a battle of wills, to see who would fall first. Mance had won every time until she stopped trying to. She was tied anyway and the man would probably awake before she got far. She felt sightly ashamed, even if she knew it was truth.

She had been terrified, too. Those first nights, when she was ignorant of his intentions. Mance’s tone might have been light hearted and amused most of the time, but Lyarra was still wary of him. He wouldn’t lit a fire in the night, for someone could spot them, being still relatively close to Winterfell, Lyarra assumed. His body had been too close, his breath heating the back of her neck too often when they shared the furs. He must have noticed her reluctance, for him somehow awkwardly and firmly told her: “I’m no rapist. I simply don’t want to freeze to death on the night.” And while he was a traitor and an oathbreaker, Lyarra believed him.

Lyarra had fantasied with killing him or at least she had thought about doing it. She could try to steal the knife and free herself after cutting his throat, but the thought of slaying Mance, or anyone really, brought a heavy feeling to her belly. She had seen a few executions, most had been men like Mance, deserters of the Watch that would be unlucky enough to get caught and brought to her father’s justice. But she didn’t know what it was like to kill-and she’d hopefully never have to find out.

She still wasn’t sure of where they were, Mance refused to tell her where he was taking her and wouldn’t tell her of his motives. Lyarra wouldn’t stop thinking about it. It didn’t make any sense, he could have just left her on the woods to find her way back or die as he returned to wherever he came from. Lyarra wasn’t even sure of _how_ he knew which path to take. She knew little of reading the stars to differ north from south, but with the clouded sky, Mance couldn’t possibly know it either.

They hadn’t spotted a single soul since the beginning of their journey, which was worrying to say the least. Lyarra had managed to convince herself that Mance was as lost as her, for the alternative was that he actually was heading for a path that no other knew. A path that her father’s men wouldn’t be able to find.

If they were looking at all.

Lyarra physically shook her head. _Don’t think like that_ , she chided herself. Even if all men believed her to have ran away on her own, Robb knew her well. He’d look for Lyarra. Her faithful brother, who was brave and loved her.

“You look terribly sad, girl.” Mance was sitting across the fire, tuning his lute with a concentrated look on his face. “What pains your heart?”

Lyarra did not respond, just tried to loosen the frown upon her face. Sansa, back on when they still were on speaking terms, had told her and Arya that it would wrinkle their faces to frown so much. Arya had held an impressive scowl for the rest of the day. Bran had found it hilarious, joining her to his older sister’s dismay.

Her heart ached for them.

“I have a great pain of my own.” He confessed, his fingers trying to play some notes. Unsatisfied with the result, he went to try again. “My woman is far from me, I miss her terribly.”

“You have a woman?” The words spilled from her mouth before she could stop them, her curiosity having won the best of her.

“Aye, lovelier than any southron wench, sharper than any valyrian sword.” Mance spoke of her with a smile on his lips, half lidded eyes. He looked like a man in love. “My fair Dalla.”

He was talking about a wildling woman, Lyarra realized. There weren’t many ladies she’d describe as ‘sharper than any valyrian sword’.

“She’s from north of the Wall.” Lyarra stated, Mance nodded. “A wildling.”

The man’s lip twitched, his peaceful expression fading a bit. “A free woman.”

Lyarra could imagine the things she did with that freedom. Thieving and raiding came to her mind, along with the memory of Lord Umber complaining loudly about the wildlings that would come from the Bay of Seals to take their crops and steal their steel.

“And she knows that you used to be of the Night’s Watch?”

Mance hummed in reply. “Indeed. Every time I look at her I know that I made the right choice.”

She was confused. “You left the Watch for her?” A woman had been enough for him to forsake his sworn brothers and break his oaths? She must have been the Maiden reborn.

“No, I’ve only met her recently. I spent a week with her before I knew I had to steal her.” He smiled fondly of the memory, while Lyarra grew horrified. “She carries my child now.”

“You said you were no rapist.” She spat, disgusted at the man she had admired once. “And she carries your child you say, a _bastard._ ”

Mance’s eyes sharpened, for a second, Lyarra thought he would cut the distance between them to slap her. He did not, instead, Mance took a deep breath.

“I’m no rapist.” He said once more, this time lacking the awkwardness of the first, and with all the firmness. “If she didn’t want to be with me, I’d be long dead. Either by her hand or by her sister’s. That’s how it works with the freefolk; a man proves his strength and determination by stealing a woman from another clan, strengthening his own.”

“That’s-“Lyarra shook her head, she had no words to describe him. “Barbaric.”

“Is it? If your Lord Father wanted to marry you to a toothless old man, half rotten and half alive, could you refuse him?”

She frowned. “My father would never-“

“Not all men are your father.” Mance insisted. “You’d have to marry him and whelp him many children, he could beat you and he’d be on his right to so.”

“And every man in beyond the Wall is kind and gentle?” She asked scornfully.

Mance shrugged. “We are like you southroners in that regard, we have good and bad men, honorable and deceiving. If a man is cruel to his wife, she can cut his throat and be done with him.” His eyes met Lyarra’s. “Can you say the same for your Seven Kingdoms?”

Lyarra didn’t answer.

“And what you said about my son…” He began, and Lyarra feared she might have offended him deeply. “His mother and I are married, but if we were not, would it be so bad? Does a bastard boy run slower, die sooner?” He asked. “Beyond the Wall we care very little about marriages and bastards. A man proves his own worth, not his name.”

The quietness remained between them for a bit, the first notes of a song she didn’t know began.

“I think you’d make a fine free woman, should you ever let go of the southron ways.” Mance’s expression had softened. “Such hatred for bastards when you are one yourself.” The song was a lullaby of sorts, or at least it felt like one. Lyarra could feel the tiredness weighting on her body. “If cut you and the Queen, you’d both bleed red.”

She didn’t want to hear him anymore. He only spoke of treacherous things and a freedom she could never hope to have.

“I do not like this sky.” Mance said at last, before Lyarra’s eyes closed. “Beyond the Wall, the stars shine bright and clear.”

 

* * *

 

"No!" She screeched, making her father wince and her mother frown.

" _Arya._ " Her voice was stern, it left no room for complains. "It's a great honor we have been granted-“

“I don’t want it! Give it to someone else.” She begged.

They wanted to take her to King’s Landing. Her father had been offered the position of Hand, which he had accepted on the condition that the King would aid him on the search for his daughter. Arya thought that, if they were such good friends, the King would offer his help on his own. Queen Cersei had kindly offered to take both her and Sansa, along with Bran and some members of their household –the despicable Jeyne Poole included-, back with her.

The girl shook her head once more, the tears burning in the back of her eyes. She didn’t want to leave the North at all, especially not with her sister missing. Besides, she’d have to stand Sansa and Jeyne fawning over the Prince during the whole journey through the Kingsroad. Bran coming along wasn’t enough to move her either.

“It won’t be today,” her mother insisted calmly “nor tomorrow. The court will stay for a fortnight like we had previously agreed.”

“I don’t want to be alone with the Queen and Prince Joffrey.” She pouted. They’d have to drag her by the hair to the Kingsroad, she swore. Even if caused her a sore and bald scalp. “He’s scared of the Direwolves and wants them in chains.”

Her father winced under her gaze. “They are very dangerous creatures. Just because they are tame with you it doesn’t mean they’ll be with everyone else. To be cautious is wise.” Arya didn’t think so. She’d seen her father petting them often enough, mostly when she and Bran let Summer and Nymeria under the table. “And you won’t be alone for long, as soon as I find Lyarra, we’ll both head to King’s Landing.”

Arya too focused on her father to notice the way her mother’s lips thinned at the mention of Lyarra.

“Why can’t we just all go when you find her?” She asked lamely.

“It’s already bad we are keeping the King, we cannot delay the whole royal family for a missing bastard girl.” Her mother replied, frustration building on her face. Terrible as it sounded, it ringed true to her ears. Even if the King had never seemed sad about having to stay.

Arya looked down at her boots, trying her best to keep the tears away.  

“It’s a great opportunity. And it’s common for lords to foster their sons and daughters in foreign courts, you will meet many highborn girls such as yourself there.” Catelyn looked at her with hope on her eyes, one that almost made her feel guilty.

“We’ll be the only northerners there.” _She_ ’ll be the only one, Arya thought angrily. Sansa was already braiding her hair like the Queen’s companions did, and all Bran could think about was becoming a knight.

Her mother sighed.

“Your sister may one day rule over every man, southron and northerner.” Her mother pointed out. Arya grimaced, apparently the betrothal was imminent. “She must learn and become acquainted with both to do so.” Arya turned her head. “She’s your _true_ sister, you must acompany her."

“All she wants is to have Joffrey’s babies.” Arya spat. “She doesn’t need me for that.”

They had let her go after that. It was so unfair she could barely hold herself on the indignity. She had to bite her lower lip to keep herself from crying out in frustration. Lyarra would have known what to say to make her feel better. They'd go together to King's Landing, they would discover every secret that King Maegor had hidden in the Red Keep, and she wouldn't mind that Arya wasn't like the other highborn ladies.

Arya sniffed. _She didn't want to leave Winterfell._

A wet feeling got to her fingers and she squeaked. "Nymeria!" The direwolf rubbed her head against hand and Arya caressed it gently. She never failed to cheer her.

Maester Luwin was right behind her. "I knew she'd find you." He smiled kindly.

"If my parents sent you after me, I've already talked to them." And what a talk it had been.

The old maester cocked his head to the side, confused. "No, it was Mikken who asked for your whereabouts."

Mikken? She stared at him, lost. Had she broken anything of worth of notice recently?

"Why?"

"He did not say, child. Apparently he had something to give you."

She nodded, still uncertain. "Thank you, Maester Luwin. I'll go right away."

With Nymeria following her, Arya made her way to the armory.

 

* * *

 

She was roughly awakened by Mance shaking her arm. Her wrists were free and unbound. He was right before her, with the knife on his hand and a grave expression on his face. "We need to move, quickly."

She opened her mouth but he shushed her before anything left. "We are not alone. _Hurry_."

Her heart jumped, hope raising on her chest. She failed to keep it off her face and Mance was no fool. "Don't even think about it," he hissed. There was something wild in his eyes that made her feel uneasy. "These are not your father's men, not _by chance._ "

"Who is it?" She whispered, even though there wasn't anyone on sight. Even if they weren’t Winterfell’s men, they had to be her father’s bannermen. She’d take her chances. _Umbers, Karstarks, Glovers._

Mance’s face was tight. “I saw a red flayed man on pink strewn with red drops.” He licked his lips in a nervous gesture he could not hide. “Even a man like me knows that banner.”

Lyarra’s blood froze.

_Boltons._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this how you write a cliffhanger? I wouldn't know.
> 
> Don't be harsh on our girl Lyarra, she'll change with time. She has the same thoughts on wildlings as the rest of Westeros, much like Jon did. And like him, she'll be proven wrong.
> 
> For those who have not read the books, Dalla is Mance's wildling wife. Also I'm taking some liberties with the way the freefolk are portrayed, but hopefully I'm being accurate.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed :)


	4. The war band and the flayed man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wildlings make their entry. Lyarra escapes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long, but here it is!

He feels like a green boy. At the risk of being teased by Tormund, he lets out a roar when he gets to the top. The cold wind hits his face, cutting any warmth that his cheeks might have held. He rubbed his eyes, which had become teary from the coolness. Ygritte knew many songs about the Wall, but none of them made justice to it, and right now, he couldn’t remember any that mentioned the view that offered the top of it.

Longspear barks a laugh at him, Ygritte ignores him and closes his eyes to ease himself further. His breath and heart are not yet settled. Climbing the Wall was not an easy feat, halfway through it, Ygritte had started to curse himself and questioned why he simply hadn’t joined the bunch that raided through the Bay of Seals. Now that they were done with the extraneous part, all he could do was enjoy.

“It is quite the thing, isn’t it?” Tormund, who by miracle wasn’t laughing at him, asked. Ygritte stared at him, he had climbed the Wall more times than any of them and lived to tell the tale. The man was a legend.

“It is,” he agreed. He could spot the lights of a village and a green forest if he looked south and if he turned back north, he could spot his Haunted Forest and even the Frostfangs. “I can see the Lands of Always Winter from up here!”

Longspear snorts by his side. “I’m sure you can, now get over here, we still have to go down.” Ygritte’s stomach fell. He took one last look behind, with the silent promise that he'd soon be back.

It was his first time climbing the Wall and his first adventure south of it. He had never even participated on a raid, though his mother and others from his village had. They would cross the Bay of Seals on little boats and return with sacks of grain and goats, and children and wives once in a while. 

The prospect of going beyond the Wall had always been both exciting and terrifying. He could fall to his death while climbing, or he could lose the north and become disoriented, to never find his way back again. Or worse, he could get killed and never return. Much like Mance Rayder had.

The war band had met with his fretting wife some time ago, who was certain her husband wasn’t dead and only missing.

Ygritte felt bad for her.

With one last glance to the True North, Ygritte took Longspear’s hand and together, they began the slow way down the Wall.

 

* * *

 

“Why did you take us east?” Lyarra whispered furiously, even if there was no one on sight. At least she knew where they were now, if the Bolton men were around; the Dreadfort had to be near. And she hadn’t paid attention to Maester Luwin’s lessons for nothing: Lyarra was certain that the Dreadfort was to the east of Winterfell.

Mance was not an ignorant man, he had proven that time and time again, nor he was a stupid one, so it went beyond her why he’d make way to the lands of a man with such a ruthless reputation.

“This isn’t the east” Mance responded, making her frown.

“Then where are we?” Gods, she was so tired of riding in the dark.

“We are north of Winterfell.” He confessed. “Nearing the last river.”

The last river? Crossing it were the Umber’s lands, along with the Last Hearth: their castle and ancestral seat of their house. If Mance was telling the truth, it made no sense for the Bolton men to be there. Lord Roose Bolton –or Lord Leech as the Karstark brothers had called him- rarely ventured outside his lands and nobody ventured in his. Just the stories of his house made the bravest shudder.

“Are you sure it’s them?”

There was a sharp edge in Mance’s voice. “You think I would have freed you I wasn’t?”

No, he wouldn’t have.

She could go to them.  Roose Bolton, regardless of his reputation, was sworn to her father. These were his men, if Lyarra were to ask for they help, they should ideally come to her aid. But something beneath her skin went tense at the thought. It was ridiculous to be wary of them…but Lyarra had heard stories. Both of Robert’s Rebellion and the Greyjoy Rebellion.

Maybe it was better to stay by Mance’s side. If he planned for them to cross the last river, there was a chance she could take the horse and ride to the Last Hearth or simply into the Umber’s lands. They were good, loyal men. Lyarra recalled dancing with the Smalljon Umber once. It had been odd and amusing to see such a gigantic man blushing like maid under her eyes.

Robb wasn’t as amused, she remembered.

“How many of them were?”

“I counted half a dozen men, but that isn’t the problem.” He shook his head, untying the horse from the tree. “They’ve got hounds with them. And this one,” he palmed her side, “won’t be able to outrun them.”

Lyarra bit her lip. “What do we do?”  _ What do I do? _

“We move." Mance looked back at the path he had come from. "They are right behind us, but they haven't seen us yet. I hope."

They rode for what seemed like a day, but the sun was barely above them when they stopped. Her buttocks hurt from riding so long without a proper mount. The horses at Winterfell had been well equipped and Lyarra had grown spoiled with them. Mance's mare huffed with tiredness and the man decided it was time to rest. He did so reluctantly, Lyarra could tell he had no desire of cutting their rhythm.

"Mance?" 

"Yes?" 

"I need… to relieve myself." She tried her best not to flinch under his inquiring gaze. Lyarra knew what he was thinking, if whether it was wise or not to let her out of his sight. "I won't go far." She promised.

He nodded sharply. "Hurry, we are leaving as soon as you are done." She nodded back and turned on her heels before he could regret it. 

As she made her way through the trees, Lyarra wrapped her arms around herself. The cold keeps biting into her, the cloak was becoming less of a shield against the chill and more of an ally. It was by sheer luck that she hadn't fell ill by now. 

She briefly considered making use of her free hands, but thought against it. If she were to run or pick up a weapon, Mance (or someone worse) would surely stop her before she could do anything of worth.

When she could no longer spot Mance, Lyarra crouched on the ground, but before she could even think of lifting the hem of her dress, a howl froze her on the spot. The distant sound horses could be heard and closer, the voices of different men. Instead of rising and returning to Mance, she slumped to the forest’s floor. The snow was painfully cold against her face and hands, but she didn’t dare to move. 

She held her breath as she felt them getting closer. Lyarra idly wondered if Mance would come to get her and meet the Bolton men instead. And if he were to do so and survive, would she ever get another chance to get away from him?

The men were now walking around her, though Lyarra was certain they were yet to spot her. Praying to all the Gods, she dared to rise her head from the snow. She was surrounded by branches and fallen leaves, which must have helped to hide her, though would make noises if she were to step over them. Deciding she would try her odds, she dragged herself over her belly.

 

* * *

 

Since he had survived both the climbing of the Wall and the descent of it, Ygritte decided he could call himself a man. He’d like to believe that Tormund considered him one now too, even if Ygritte was yet to grow a single hair on his chest or face.

Crossing the Bay of Seals had taken them half a day or so. Bits of it were frozen cold and Tormund told them that a storm was coming. Ygritte bit down his remarks. Wasn’t the south supposed to be all warm and pleasant?

Once they landed on shore, they began walking east, were the food and people were supposed to be. Ygritte had never gone south, so he had no choice but to trust the others on the matter. Maybe one day he'll be the one guiding others. His own sons, even.

He'd like that, two or three children, kissed by fire just like him, and a pretty wife. He wasn't so green that he was yet to know a woman, but none of the girls he had lain with had tempted him to steal them. He hadn’t found any girl or woman who made him feel that way. 

He still was young, he had more than enough time to find someone to spend the long winters with.

 

* * *

 

She had tried to follow the sun, but it became harder and harder as the climate grew harsher and the sky darker. Lyarra was hungry, her stomach growled in protest as she made her way through the snow. Her whole body shivered from the cold and she could barely feel the tip of her toes.

Was she any closer to the Umber’s lands?

She hadn’t crossed the Last River, but it felt as if she had been walking for days.

Thirst clawed at her throat. Maester Luwin had told her and Robb to avoid drinking snow if there were any options, as it would only make the desire for water to grow.

She was so tired. She wanted to sleep, but the chance that she’d never wake up was too high to risk laying some minutes on the ground. Though there were a few errant trees that she could spot. Maybe it wouldn’t kill her to sit there for a moment.

When she reached the tree, Lyarra slumped against it. It offered little protection against the wind, but it was better that being walking against it. Her eyelids fluttered.

_ Five minutes _ , she thought. Only five and she’ll get up and resume her journey.

It feels like it’s been more than five minutes when she’s being shaken awake.

“Girl?” A rough voice startles her. The grip on her arms is strong and meant to make her focus, but Lyarra feels as if she were underwater. “Are you alive?”

“Mance?” She slurred. Oh, he must be so mad at her. At least the Bolton men hadn’t gotten him. “The Bolton…?” Gods, thinking hurt. Her tongue felt both dry and thick, too big for her mouth. She couldn’t open her eyes.

“The Bolton men?” The same voice asked.

“She knows Mance,” a woman’s voice spoke. “The girl is freezing dead, we’ve got to start a fire.”

“Not here.”

She felt herself being pulled up by someone and being wrapped in furs that tickled her nose. It was wonder she could feel it at all. Something was pressed against her chaffed lips and a liquid burnt her throat.

Lyarra coughed.

“No, no. Drink up, it’ll make ya feel better.” A different man reassured her. He sounded younger than the others. Maybe her age or so. She thought of Robb. She wanted to cry.

The warming embrace was enough to make her slip into unconsciousness once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
